


Between Heartbreak and Revival

by only_freakin_donuts



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Sad, and then they host a seance, cause that's super normal right?, it's a really sad one guys, rufus is dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 22:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15156947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_freakin_donuts/pseuds/only_freakin_donuts
Summary: The first five nights without Rufus in the bunker, watching as our team, mostly Jiya, go through the five stages of grief over his loss. (And while I go through them too....)“Nobody’s supposed to marry their first love."“Nobody’s supposed to hold their first love while they’re dying either!”





	Between Heartbreak and Revival

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOPS, I let my feelings about Rufus' death simmer for a month and a half and then they exploded into a Google Doc. 
> 
> It's sad yeah, as you guys can imagine considering it's about the five stages of grief, but do remember that the last stage is acceptance, so it ends on the happiest note it can, given the circumstances. 
> 
> And guys, given the news we as clockblockers got this week, I feel defeated. I more than hope we get this movie, cause we can't have already had the end and not known it at the time. We can't leave Rufus dead (?!) In any case, at least for the foreseeable future, I'll still be here, letting my feelings explode onto google docs. I have lots of plans. We don't let Rittenhouse win in this house lol. 
> 
> Anyways, enjoy it I guess. Want some irrelevant hints? Corn Pops, spaghetti, tea brewed in vodka (it's really a thing), Flynn contemplating cosmetology school, the seventh king of Hell, and a Nobel Prize. (And of course chocodiles).

**Denial**

The bunker was the damn nearest to quiet Denise had ever heard it. It would’ve been nice, had she not known the reason behind the deafening, depressing stillness.

The group, minus one of them, sat in a circle in the living room, together in their toil and trouble– Lucy holding a frozen pack of peas to her beaten, bruising face, and Wyatt looking on, his eyes darting to her every few seconds to make sure she was still okay. Mason fumbles with the book in his lap, unable to concentrate, unable to settle his mind through what’s happened. Flynn stares straight, nursing his broken right arm, probably on a few too many painkillers. Grief in any form reminds him of his ultimate tragedy, Denise could only imagine. And she knits, she knits as she always does. 

She’s going to have to decide who gets this scarf, though. She was making it for Rufus’ birthday. 

“We should talk about it,” she finally speaks up. “We shouldn’t go through this alone.”  
They all look amongst each other. “We’re missing someone,” Flynn notes, “someone who really should be here.”  
“She won’t,” Mason shakes his head. “She’s…. being Jiya, doing what she does.”  
“She can’t do that forever,” Denise says, sighing. “That can’t be healthy for her. She isn’t coping.”  
“It is her first night, without him,” Mason reminds her. “She can do whatever she wants tonight, none of us are in any position to intervene.”  
“Denise is right, though, it isn’t healthy,” Wyatt speaks up.  
“It also isn’t healthy for her to feel everything yet, in my opinion,” Lucy argues, quietly. Her voice sounds as though it’s hidden under a layer of dust, as though it hasn’t been used in a long time. And it hasn’t really, no one had heard her so much as peep since 1888. Since she yelled at Emma, put that damned, jammed gun between her eyes and tried to pull the trigger... Emma’s gun hadn’t jammed when she put three bullets through Rufus’ chest. Or her mother’s. Not that that was the point, it wasn’t. The hows and the whys didn’t matter and never did. He was dead, that was the truth of it. And it hurt. 

Everyone turns to look at her for a moment, having almost forgotten that she was going through something too today, something the rest of them could not know or feel with her, something that she had and would continue to put aside. 

The world wasn’t fair. 

“Is there anything that I can do for you, Lucy?” Denise asks. “Can I make you something to eat, or drink?”  
Lucy shakes her head, keeping the cold compress to her cheek and lip. “We weren’t talking about me,” she says.  
“It’s about all of us,” Denise reminds them, the whole, broken group. “I know we were talking about how to be there for Jiya, but we all have to be there for each other as well, we all lost someone.”  
“Go home, Denise, we’re okay,” Wyatt argues. “We don’t need you to handle us with the kid gloves. We can take care of each other.”  
“I’m not abandoning you at a time like this,” Denise bickers back, calmly but without any hesitation, returning to her knitting.

Amidst the loud discussion, they hadn’t noticed Jiya tiptoeing into the kitchen, quietly pawing through the cabinet they kept the snacks in.  
“Hey,” Mason starts, acknowledging her presence and drawing everyone’s attention to it. “Would you like to join us? We’re not doing anything in particular. Just, company, you know.”  
She shakes her head, hugging a box of Corn Pops to her chest.  
“We’re here, when you’re ready,” Lucy tells her simply. “We’ll be here.”  
Jiya nods again and scurries back to her room, clad with Corn Pops.

“I’m going–” Mason starts, getting up to follow her.  
“Leave her,” Wyatt reinforces, as Mason sits back down. “At least she has cereal and not that bottle of vodka we have over there. Which, if we all don’t mind, I’m about to go get, how many shot glasses should I grab?”  
“One for everyone, we could all use it,” Denise mumbles. She didn’t usually condone the copious amount of alcohol in this bunker, but everyone got a pass to do whatever they wanted tonight.

If that meant shots, if that meant Corn Pops, if that meant company or solitude, denial looked different for everyone. 

Later, as they’re all headed off the bed, Denise quietly opens the door to Jiya’s room, treading lightly, not to startle the girl. She was lost in a vision anyways, her eyes far off, laying down with one hand gripping onto an old t-shirt of Rufus’; she had a much tighter grip on the old ragged fabric than she did on her real-life situation, that was for certain. She could control this, she could direct this. She could go anywhere she wanted in time and in space, anywhere except back to him. As long as she didn’t think about that exact, excruciating fact, she was in a good place. Too far from the truth to be burned by it.  
“Jiya,” Denise starts.

She snaps out of it all quickly. Back to Earth, back to this bad dream.  
“I’m sleeping in here tonight, if that’s alright with you?” she asks. “I won’t stay forever, just… for now.”  
Jiya nods, wordlessly.  
“If you need anything, don’t be afraid to wake me up,” Denise mentions. “I’m used to it with my own kids, it’s okay.”  
Another nod, as she pulls up her covers, trying to settle in to sleep, maybe. Maybe conscious nothingness could lead to glorious, unconscious nothingness in the form of a well-needed rest.  
“Enjoy your first night back in a modern bed,” Denise chuckles. “You don’t have to worry about bedbugs anymore, that must be a relief.”  
A third nod, and a tiny, tiny little smile. No, no bed bugs, Jiya thought, just nightmares, I suppose.  
“Well, goodnight. Tomorrow will be better.” 

She could only hope.

**Anger**

Her eyes fly open to the sound of the box spring of Rufus’ bed creaking, as if someone had sat down on it. And for a moment, if she didn’t think too hard, she could imagine it was him. 

The disappointment and the mild annoyance strikes when she peeks and notices it’s just Wyatt.  
“Hey, morning,” he grins. “Or, afternoon.”  
“Do you want something?” she croaks, her voice off from slumber and sobbing.  
Wyatt shakes his head slowly, not in any rush, not having any real agenda. “No, I don’t need anything,” he answers verbally, given that her eyes are closed again, trying to block out the small amount of light streaming into the room. “Just wanted to check up on you. You missed breakfast, and lunch, we’re gonna make dinner soon.”  
“I’m not hungry,” she disputes. “I’d really appreciate being left alone, please.”  
“Okay, that’s okay,” Wyatt says gently. “I just… I know what you’re going through. I– Jess, in our original timeline–”  
“Don’t even with Jessica,” Jiya growls, sitting up. “You don’t know what I’m going through, Wyatt. You got her back. I don’t get Rufus back. Not to mention, we wouldn’t have gone to 1888 if it hadn’t been for your not-dead wife.”  
“Jiya, that’s not fair,” Wyatt starts. He should let her say what she needed to today, of all days, but his wife was not to blame for this. “If anyone’s to blame for Rufus’ death it isn’t Jessica.”  
“No, you’re right,” Jiya nods, “If anyone’s to blame it’s you.” 

“W-what?” Wyatt stutters. “That’s not–”  
“That is true,” Jiya cuts him off. “You brought Jessica into our lives, she was the reason we all ended up in 1888– me for three damn years, Wyatt! And I had to live with knowing that when you all would inevitably ignore my message not to come get me, Rufus would die. I would be responsible for that no matter what I did! So yeah, Wyatt, it’s kind of your fault.”  
He didn’t know what to say. She had a point. She also had a way of making him completely feel like crap, and that was something he’d never thought Jiya, in all her shyness and sweetness, would ever be capable of. Grief brought out ugly emotions in people, he knew that better than most.  
“Who are you really mad at, Jiya?” Wyatt asks tentatively.  
“Everyone!” she yells, her voice breaking. “I’m mad at him. I’m mad at myself. I’m really mad at you.”  
“Are you?” he asks, slightly truthfully, slightly joking. His smirk gives it away, trying to get her to smile, even if it’s at his expense.  
“Yes,” she deadpans, frost rolling off her tongue.  
He shivers under her cold spell and he simply nods. He was done fighting with her. “Blame whoever you need to,” he settles, getting up off the bed. He runs a hand over that old shirt Jiya had been holding onto on his way out, and it hits him, for a moment there. It hits him that he’s hurting too. It hurts to be blamed for his friend’s death, because a part of him almost believed it. He’d voiced it to Lucy yesterday, sitting on the floor of the hallway after they’d come home, while she iced her bruised face and ego. He felt that it was his duty, it was his duty, to protect his team, to spare their lives. And in one fell swoop he managed to get one of his team members beat to a pulp, and the other killed. He was a great team member, he was a great soldier, he was a great friend. “I miss him too.” 

He finds Lucy in the kitchen, watching a pot on the stove, staring out into space.  
“I don’t think Jiya wants dinner,” Wyatt huffs, sitting on the kitchen table.  
Lucy glances at him, and his seating choices, and pulls out a chair. “Were you raised in a barn?” she asks under her breath. “I’ll make her a plate anyways,” she concludes. “She needs to eat.”  
“She’s angry,” Wyatt mentions. “She’s really angry.”  
“I am too,” Lucy answers simply.  
“Least you’re not yelling and blaming me for it all,” Wyatt mumbles. “I’m angry too, of course I am,” he agrees. “We all are. It’s unfair as hell, it freakin’ sucks, but it sucks for all of us, there’s no need to yell or place blame, there is no reasonable blame here.”  
“I think we all feel a little bit of guilt, and a lot of anger,” Lucy tells him calmly, draining the water from her spaghetti and mixing in butter and breadcrumbs. “We all cope differently. If she wants to yell, let her. If she’s mean, you know she doesn’t mean it. Some people are loud when they’re angry, and others are not.”  
Wyatt nods, taking it in, or something. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he says.  
She offers him a small smile and plate of spaghetti. “It won’t cure anger, but, it’s a start. I’m going to go get everyone else.”  
She pats his thigh before walking out, to the room down the hall Wyatt had just left. She pauses before knocking, accepting the fact that Rufus won’t answer. Rufus won’t be in there. He liked it when she made spaghetti this way, he didn’t like tomato sauce, and last week she’d promised him she’d make it soon, as soon as Denise brought the groceries. This plate should’ve been his. 

She was angry too.

Jiya opens the door just a crack, making sure it isn’t Wyatt again, he’d given her a headache (which could also be from not remembering the last substantial meal she’d had). It was just Lucy though, with dinner for the two of them. She didn’t offer any words, just the same offer of a smile, spaghetti, and silence she’d given Wyatt moments earlier.

“It’s okay to be angry,” she says, in between mouthfuls. “But just know that tomorrow will be better.” 

She could only hope.

**Bargaining**

“Jiya?” Mason mumbles, slowly adjusting to being awake at this time. “It’s the middle of the night, what on God’s green one are you doing?”  
She doesn’t answer, just shakes her head and continues to furiously scribble at something in her notebook, some collection of equations and calculations.  
“Can I see those?” Mason asks, figuring he could make sense of it by looking at her work, if it made any sense. It could be complete nonsense, her way of venting in mathematical gibberish.  
She shakes her head again. “I’m working,” she mumbles.  
“Do you know what time it is?” he asks again. “C’mon, you can do this tomorrow, whatever you’re doing.”  
“If I make this work we could have results by tomorrow!” Jiya exclaims.  
“Results of what?!” Mason asks again. “What are we doing?!” 

“We’re getting Rufus back!” Jiya announces.  
“Jiya, we can’t,” Mason huffs. “I want to too, I’m sorry–”  
“No no, look,” Jiya says, pointing at the half-drawn equation scribbled in graphite, messy but legible. Mason was used to her chicken scratch by now, even still with the darkness of the room and the hour of the clock it takes him a moment to wrap his head around it. “It won’t work,” he concludes. “Not to mention trying it and failing would be catastrophic.”  
She crosses her arms stubbornly. “I’ll put some more work into it, it’s obviously far from perfect right now, but it will work, it has to.”  
“I have faith in you, it’s not that I don’t,” Mason reminds her. “But, tonight, tonight is for resting.”  
“We don’t have time to waste!” she argues, back to scribbling. “Look here,” she asks him, “this is the part that I’m having problems with. If we can make absolutely sure that is this the correct formula, we would be set, no?”  
“No,” Mason tells her firmly. “We can’t ever be certain of anything. Jiya, this isn’t a joke, this isn’t child play, this is serious. It’s difficult and it’s risky, and–”  
“And it’s worth it!” she argues back. “It’s for Rufus!” 

“Jiya,” Mason presses, lightly. “Have you been eating, have you taken a shower? You have to take care of yourself–”  
“I know how to take care of myself, Connor,” Jiya argues, a little harsher than she meant to. “But this is important to me.”  
“It’s important to me too,” Mason reminds her. “I thought of Rufus as family, you know I did. And I think of you as family too, I hope you know that. And… I’m partially to blame; if I never started this, he’d still be here. He might not have the gall to talk to you yet… but he’d still be here.”  
She nods, and takes one of his hands. “Then help me get him back, you didn’t invent a time machine for nothing.”  
“Do you think church would help you?” Mason presses again. “We could go, all of us. We could have a service for him.”  
“No, church won’t help me,” Jiya mumbles, returning to her math. “And neither will a funeral, Connor, this will help. God can’t do anything when we’ve already gone against Him. We break the rules, He leaves us to clean up our own mess. This is me cleaning up our mess, cause God isn’t going to do it for us.”  
“We can’t do it either,” Connor says, not letting down on his tone. “We aren’t God and we aren’t better than Him.”

“You know who would do this, you know would be ruthless enough to help me? You know who would say ‘screw God, let’s do what we want– what we need– to do’?” She raises her eyebrows, waiting for Connor to react, to figure out her next move.  
“No,” Mason starts, picking it up quickly. “Not even remotely an option, Jiya. That is the furthest from God– They are the reason he is dead!”  
“They would get him back, for a price,” Jiya responds carefully.  
“You wouldn’t seriously consider that,” Mason argues, putting a hand on her arm, a comforting gesture. “That’s too far.”  
“Is it?” she asks quietly. For the first time tonight, Connor sees a person in there, finally. A person he knows pretty well by now. She’s in there. She’s hurting so, so much, and she’s bargaining. With everything she has in her.

He rubs her arm, before moving to get up. “Get some rest, Jiya, we can go back to this tomorrow,” he mutters. “Tomorrow will be better.”

Yeah, she could only hope.

**Depression**

That chair’s been in front of the bathroom door for ten minutes now, and the shower running. And Flynn really just has to take a quick mid-night whiz.  
He knocks softly on the door. “Hello?” he asks. 

Inside, Jiya’s got both hands firmly on the sink, not sure if she’s willing herself to stop crying or not to vomit, feeling anxiety looming on the horizon. Ground yourself, Jiya, what do you feel? The sink is cold against your palms, the floor is rough against your feet, your hair is dripping water down your back.

That last feeling brings her a lot more sadness than she ever thought it would. She’d spent the past three years without Rufus, without his physical touch… without his fingers in her hair. His hands always found their way to playing with the ends, tugging the front pieces, combing through it while they were in bed, while they kissed. One of the things that got her through her time in the 1880s was knowing one day, it was possible that she’d get him and all his little mannerisms back. But now that wasn’t so.

And she didn’t want this stupid hair anymore, this reminder of him that literally weighed her down. If only her vision would clear up from these stupid tears. 

“Jiya, is that you in there?” Flynn asks again. He heard sniffling, he highly suspected it was her. He knew Lucy and Wyatt were asleep, he’d passed their room on his way here and saw them both out like lights, Lucy with her mouth ever so slightly agape. He wasn’t sure how they were sleeping so soundly these days, when even he wasn’t and he was barely on good terms with the deceased. “Are you okay?” 

He didn’t expect the girl he barely knew, barely ever spoken a full sentence to, to open the door, wet eyes and wet hair, hold out her hand and ask for his help. He looks at what she’s got her outstretched palm- the scissors from the medicine cabinet- and he knows what she wants to do. He simply nods. 

“Are you sure?” Flynn asks. “And are you sure you trust me with this? You can go to a real place tomorrow, you know.”  
She shrugs. She wasn’t sure of anything, running purely on broken emotions and a twisted form of adrenaline. She thinks this is what she wants though, what will make it feel a little better…

She makes the first cut and she cries. And Flynn… well, if anything’s close to making him cry… He hates seeing other people grieve. He knows that feeling, he knows how much it hurts and how it feels like it’ll never end. And maybe it won’t ever completely, because he still feels it deep inside himself for his wife and his daughter. And Jiya had a lot of years left in her, a lot of years of bush-league, bullshit depression.  
He pries the scissors from her fingers, his other hand on her arm.  
“You cut that piece really short,” he notes. “Is that what you want?”  
She nods. She already hates the way that one, short piece bounces against her face, but it would get rid of the reminder, it would give up the ghost. 

With every damp, dark clump that fell at her feet, he’d disappear a little more– right? That was the way it would work? If she couldn’t feel his hands looking to get lost in her long waves, she would feel him less. She couldn’t do anything about feeling his touch on her skin, while she was awake, while she was asleep… but she could do this. She could get rid of this.  
She snaps out of it when she eventually feels Flynn’s hand raking through short strands, his palm brushing against her ear, so different from Rufus in every way. “What do you think?” he asks. “Should I try for a cosmetology license when we get out of this craphole?” 

It would take some getting used to, one more thing in the middle of all this already changing ground. She nods, though. “Thanks for your help,” she tells him sincerely, in post-crying, whimpery words. “I’ll leave you alone now, I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be sorry,” Flynn argues, halfheartedly attempting to clean the mess they’d made. “Do you want tea?” he asks. “Or something a little stronger?”  
“Something stronger than I am?” she says quietly.  
He smiles at her– at the reflection of himself three years ago. “You are strong,” he reminds her. “You are very strong. You can be strong and be sad at the same time. I am, have been for years.” 

He slides her a mug– a mix of Earl Grey and Grey Goose, with a hint of honey– across the table and he listens as she asks her burning question. “Does it ever get better? Does the sadness ever go away?”  
He sighs, and he nods. “It gets better,” he tells her honestly. “I won’t tell you it goes away completely because it doesn’t. A part of you will always miss him. You loved him. He was your first love?”  
She nods, almost a little bit guilty to admit her “first love” came into her life in her mid-twenties. “He was my first,” she nods. “I hoped he would be my last.”  
“Nobody’s supposed to marry their first love,” Flynn tries.  
“Nobody’s supposed to hold their first love while they’re dying either!” Jiya exclaims, a fresh wave of tears coming over her. 

He nods and reaches a hand to her, which she takes with both of hers. “You’re correct,” he answers earnestly. “And if no one’s said it yet, I am so, so sorry, Jiya.”  
She wipes her eyes and tries to tuck her hair behind her ear. “Yeah, thanks,” she answers.  
“It will hurt less and less, I promise you that,” Flynn says. “Believe people when they say that tomorrow will be just a little bit better. It will.”

She could only hope.

**Acceptance**

A cup, his shirt, his laptop, two candles. A cup, his shirt, and laptop, and candles. A cup, his shirt, and–  
“Hey, Lucy, do you think we have candles down here?”

“Why would we–?” Lucy starts, and then she notices Jiya’s hair. Jiya’s had a few of this interactions already today, “wow, that’s different” and “it looks very cute!”, and a British accented “that’s kind of a shame”. And now, “Whoa.”  
“Candles?” Jiya prods again.  
“Check the storage room?” Lucy shrugs.

As Jiya takes off for the storage room, Lucy heads for the kitchen. “So Jiya chopped off all her hair and now she’s searching for candles, should I be concerned?”  
Everyone shrugs, Flynn takes a sip of his drink. “Let the girl be,” he answers passively. “She isn’t hurting anyone.”  
“Unless she’s trying to start a fire,” Lucy reasons.  
“She isn’t an arsonist, Lucy,” Flynn chuckles. “She’s just… doing something.”

Jiya releases the collection of things in her arms once she reaches the table– two candles, Rufus’ laptop, his ratty shirt, and a cup.  
“Okay, what are you doing?” Flynn asks.  
“You’re just going to think I’m crazy,” Jiya argues, shaking her head.  
“We already do,” Wyatt interjects. “Wait a second, are you trying to set up a seance? You’re trying to set up a seance! How do you even know how to?”  
“How do you even know how to?” Lucy asks him. 

“I took a witchcraft course in college,” they both reply. Jiya acknowledges the correlation with a half grin, and returns to setting up.  
“I’m leaving,” Flynn mumbles. “You guys have fun accidentally summoning the seventh king of Hell to our humble bunker, tell him we have vacancy at the moment.”  
“Oh stop that,” Lucy objects, rolling her eyes. “But uh seriously Jiya, maybe this isn’t the greatest idea?”  
“If you want to leave, now’s your chance,” Jiya announces firmly. “If not, one hand on the cup. Don’t apply pressure.” 

Wyatt’s first to supply his left hand, as Denise wordlessly shakes her head and exits swiftly. “You guys have fun.”  
“Ah, what the hell,” Connor shrugs, putting his hand in. “Lucy, c’mon.”  
Lucy huffs, and finally lays her hand on top of Connor’s. “Okay,” Jiya nods. She waits a moment. And then she asks. “Rufus, are you there?”

Jiya could swear she feels a breeze against her neck, rustling her hair lightly. Of course, he went for her hair. She knew it was him beyond any doubt, and almost instantly, a wave of relief washes over her. It worked. “Hi,” she whispers. “Can you move the cup for us, to let us know you’re really here?”  
When no one was expecting anything, it happened. The cup darts north, to the opposite end of the table.  
“Jesus Christ on a bicycle,” Connor mumbles. “Which one you did that?”  
“It was Rufus,” Wyatt replies, a proud grin on his face. “I knew he could do it.”  
The cup moves again, closer to them. Wyatt chuckles. “Hey, buddy.” 

“Can you type for us, Rufus?” Jiya asks, opening his laptop up to an empty coding terminal. This is where he would feel the most comfortable, the coding terminal was so very him, it only felt right.  
The cup moves back to its original spot, and the terminal clicks on. 

“I just can’t believe this worked,” Lucy mutters. “Hi, Rufus.” She never thought she’d say those words again.  
The keys of the laptop slowly start to press down on their own, in a pattern that mirrored Rufus’ fast, organized typing skills. “Closure,” they all read off the screen in unison. “You want to give us closure?” Lucy confirms.  
“You deserve that much.”

It hurts but they agree. His death in itself was so quick, they didn’t get goodbyes, or last words. He spent his last minutes in shock, not registering what was happening before it inevitably did. And while the world ended for him, it came crashing down at everyone else’s feet. Wyatt stayed there while Jiya held him and tried to convince herself she was having a terrible nightmare, Flynn took off after Lucy, trying to at least avenge his death, and getting nowhere. Everything was unsuccessful, there was nothing to do but admit defeat and go home, torn apart and beaten up. And without him. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Lucy tries. “It’s okay.”  
The response comes quickly, the keys danced on their own. “Has Wyatt admitted he loves you yet?” Lucy laughs; for the first time in the last five, horrible days. “Not yet,” she answers him, looking back at a blushing, grinning Wyatt.  
“How’s Real Housewives?”  
She laughs again. “I haven’t watched in a few days, I’ve been preoccupied.”  
“Well sorry for that, I’ll try not to die again.”  
It’s turned to pained laughter, the reminder that this wasn’t real. He was still dead.  
“I’m sorry,” he types. “I never know how to really talk to you, Lucy. I’ve never known how to tell you I really admire you. You are everything, you’re so smart and you’re brave and strong. Our team couldn’t have ran without you.”  
“Our team couldn’t have run without you,” Lucy deflects, wiping an eye. “Thanks, Rufus. I love you.”  
“I love you too,” he types. “Take Rittenhouse by the balls for me.”  
“For you,” she agrees, laughing again.

“And Wyatt,” Rufus continues, “Tell her you love her already, and help her take Rittenhouse down.”  
Wyatt rolls his eyes, but he smiles. “Of course.”  
“And I’m not mad at you, about Jessica. I’m not mad.”  
Wyatt nods. “Thanks.”  
“Thank you for being like a brother to me. You’re the best soldier our team could’ve asked for. You’re the reason I didn’t die much sooner.”  
Wyatt can’t help but chuckle in spite of himself. “If you say so, bud.”  
“I do say so, and I’m dead, you have to listen to me. For once.”  
“For once,” Wyatt mocks jokingly, shaking his head. “Yeah, shoulda done that more often.”  
“Listen to me this time. I have a stash of chocodiles under my bed that no one knows about.” 

“Except me,” Mason mumbles, shaking his head.  
“You know everything, and you’re a smartass,” comes Rufus’ truthful response. “But you’re also one of the best, and honestly one of the most humble, people I’ve ever known. You’ve been the best idol any fanboy could ask for, and the best father figure any boy could ask for.” Mason’s voice breaks as he reads. He swears he feels a hand on his back, but when he looks, there’s no one there.  
“I would not have been the man I was without you.”  
“Likewise,” Mason answers. “Likewise, Rufus.”  
“Take care of everyone. Take care of Jiya.” 

Mason nods. He loves that him and Rufus didn’t need a big long conversation to hit the nail right on the head. He looks over at Jiya, crying but smiling. “Of course,” Mason agrees. “You picked a good one, Rufus.”  
“I picked a better one,” Rufus argues. “She was the best thing that happened to me.”  
“You’re gonna make me cry, again,” Jiya tells him softly, as if she isn’t already crying.  
“Don’t cry,” Rufus tells her.  
“We’re going to get you back,” she tells him surely. “You worked hard to get me back from 1888, we’re going to work even harder to get you back here.”  
“If anyone can figure it out it’s you. You’ve got an incredible mind. And a pretty face too, that we can see better with your hair like that. I like it.”  
She can’t help but blush. He was much more forward when communicating through a terminal, it would appear. “Thank you.”  
“I’m sorry I can’t be there to witness all the amazing things you’re going to accomplish. You’re going to change the world.”  
“I couldn’t do it without you,” she tells him. “I still don’t know that I can.”  
“You could, and you can. I’m sure of it. Though I still wish I could be there to kiss you before you go up and accept your Nobel Prize one day. And every other day for the rest our lives. I miss you, and what could’ve been.”  
“Yeah, me too,” she agrees, in barely above whisper tone. 

“I’ll let you go, you have to let me go too. I wanted to give you closure, not make this harder on you guys.”  
“You haven’t,” she’s quick to argue. “I love you, so much. I love you.”  
“I love you more than you know. But it’s time to say goodbye now,” he tells them.  
Mason nods, looking at the group. They all nod. “We love you, Rufus,” he finishes, before they all chorus, “Goodbye.”

And he’s gone again. But it doesn’t hurt as much this time. It brings them all a sense of peace, the closure they needed, and deserved. Dare they say, the start of acceptance.

“Should we go get those chocodiles he mentioned?” Mason suggests.  
The group smiles. “Yeah,” Wyatt agrees. “For Rufus.”  
“For Rufus,” they all agree.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently *I* summoned the seventh king of Hell trying to format this..... but anyways guys hope you enjoyed and sorry if you cried ♡


End file.
